


You'd Be So Easy To Love

by pencilnub



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Brooklyn, Bucky curses a lot, Depressed Steve Rogers, Depression, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, New York City, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Slurs, Pining, Pre-Serum, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War Bucky Barnes, Slurs, Stucky - Freeform, also i wrote this because i couldn't sleep so it'll get better i promise, idk if its mutual pining, lets just see where this goes, pre-war stucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-06-05 15:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6710836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pencilnub/pseuds/pencilnub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know too well that I'm just wasting precious time,<br/>In thinking such a thing could be,<br/>That you could ever care for me.<br/>I'm sure you hate to hear that I adore you, dear.<br/>But grant me, just the same,<br/>I'm not entirely to blame."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

"Sorry, son. Maybe next one, huh?"

Steve nodded once, looking at his wet shoes, then turned to leave the store. He had come back to see if the manager had some good news for him regarding his job interview yesterday. No such luck. Glad he hadn't gotten his hopes up, he walked down the sidewalk towards home. He tried to avoid the slick patches of ice on the pavement as he wondered if he really had any hope left to get up if he wanted to. _Probably not_ , he thought bitterly, as he half-heartedly kicked a pebble into the partially frozen water in the street.

It had been four months since his mother died, and with no money to pay rent to stay in his home, he had been forced to take up Bucky's offer to come live with him. " _At least until you find somewhere else you want to be,_ " he had said. Honestly, Steve couldn't think of anywhere he'd rather be than with Bucky, but he just hated the circumstances. Jobs were scarce anyway, but with his all his medical ailments, there was only so much he could do despite how ever much conviction he had. He had nearly no money to his name, and what he did have would certainly be gone soon. What could he do? Any job he found that he was capable of actually doing would always be awarded to a boy that was stronger, taller, more reliable looking. People always loved the illusion of strength, something Steve had noticed early on in life. Instead of discouraging him, however, it had always motivated Steve to work harder to be better if not physically, then with heart. He had always been able to uphold his principals, too. Steve was strong.

Until... recently. Steve dearly missed his mother. She had always been able to encourage him when he needed it, how he needed it. She often filled any lack of purpose he felt when he was at his worst. A reason to stay, if nothing else. Now she was just... gone. As much as he felt the need to hate himself for it, he was already over the shock of having lost her. Sure, he had known previously for some time that she wouldn't last, that she would be leaving him alone to get through soon. But it seemed that knowing what was coming never made things easier, or more real. Steve had been devastated.

It was Bucky who had helped him through.

Bucky, who sat with him through long nights on the couch listening to Steve sob unintelligibly into his shoulder. Bucky, who tucked Steve in on the couch with a blanket after he had fallen asleep on him some time in the morning. Bucky, who made Steve oatmeal and left a glass of water on the table for Steve to have when he woke up, since Bucky would have been gone to his job at the docks for hours by then. Bucky, who practically forced Steve to eat it when he got home in the evening and it was still there. Bucky, who bought a notepad for Steve and gave it to him by leaving it on the table by the next day's oatmeal with a note on the first page,

" _EAT THiS, AND THE BOOK IS ALL YOuRS. Want to see something pretty when I get back._ "

Bucky was all Steve had. 

And Steve had nothing to give him, nothing to give the wonderful Bucky that worked all day for a meagre pay check that barely covered the rent for his apartment, much less the other costs of living, that now included a very problematic free loader named Steve. Nothing to give his Bucky, who was always putting on a smiling face for Steve, caring for him, helping him, when Steve knew he didn't deserve half of it. 

It was this guilt filled thought going through Steve's head when he saw a man hammering a job advertisement flyer on a telephone pole just ahead. He skipped forward to talk to the man before anyone else saw the flyer.

"Excuse me sir? I'm interested in the job." Steve called to him, a few feet away now. The man turned to see him, expecting someone a bit... bigger, judging by the voice he heard.

"You? You know what its for?" The man's tone was kind and tired. Steve saw his chance.

"Whatever it is, sir, I can do it." 

 

-

 

"YOU DID WHAT?!" Bucky couldn't believe what he was being told. Steve, who couldn't speak for the moment, was left to just look down at his shoes, still trying to catch his breath. "YOU WERE GONE FOR EIGHT HOURS, STEVE, AND THIS IS WHERE I FIND YOU?"

"Sir, he can't talk right no-"

"I KNOW HE CAN'T FUCKIN' TALK. IF HE COULD TALK HE'D BE RUNNING HIS STUPID LITTLE MOUTH FASTER THAN A FUCKIN' TRAIN." Bucky loudly interrupted the girl that had been trying to help Steve recover. Surprised at Bucky's indignant behaviour towards her, Steve cut in.

"heY keep your voice down, Buck that's no way to-"

"OH HE _CAN_ SPEAK! WELL NOW THAT YOU'RE FEELING ALL BETTER THEN, GUESS ITS TIME FOR ME TO TAKE YOUR SORRY ASS HOME!" Bucky snarled, dragging Steve up off of the curb by the back of his coat. Steve almost tripped, but Bucky grabbed his arm and yanked him close before he did. He held Steve tight for a moment, noting that he was shivering, and muttered, "Fuckin' punk," before pushing off of him and walking briskly away. Steve pulled his coat tight around himself, mumbled an apology to the girl, and hurried after Bucky. He skipped to keep up with how fast Bucky was going, knowing he was doing it on purpose. Steve was still struggling to breathe after the incident earlier, but he needed to show Bucky he didn't cause this trouble for nothing. 

"Bucky, wait!" he said, tugging on the elbow of Bucky's coat once he caught up. Bucky turned around rolling his eyes, and looked at Steve in exasperation. Breathing hard and unable to speak, Steve fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a crisp five dollar bill and held it out for Bucky.

Bucky didn't take it, only glared at it, as his nose twitched and his tongue ran over his teeth. Scowling, he finally glowered up at Steve's face. 

"You mean to tell me, you almost killed yourself accepting a job _YOU KNEW_ you couldn't do, IN _THIS_ WEATHER, HELPING DIG OUT A BIG DITCH FOR A SEWER LINE _AS ITS STARTING TO SLEET_ FOR WHAT, FIVE DOLLARS? YOU'RE STUPIDER THAN I THOUGHT, STEVE." he shouted, and stormed off again. Steve squeezed his eyes shut, partly from the cold, partly to hold back any tears. The last thing he wanted to do right now was cry. He put the money back in his pocket and walked slowly down the sidewalk, wondering if he should even bother going home.

 _Not even your home though, is it?_  

A cold wind stung against his face, carrying tiny pieces of ice that struck like needles. His back ached terribly, and he could barely keep from limping. He wondered where to go, if not back to Bucky. He had no other family. All the shelters were full this time of year. He likely wouldn't survive even a night out in the cold. But _what if_ , he thought,

_What if that was for the better?_

 

_-_

_Two hours._

_Its been two hours,_ thought Bucky, who had been counting every regret filled second since he left Steve to walk himself home. The walk had taken Bucky just over half an hour, and he had gone the long way. He knew Steve had to have been held up somehow, and he hoped it was by the weather. The fading sunlight could only have encouraged the sleet, and Bucky now wondered what on Earth had he been thinking to leave Steve like that? He was angry, of course. He was _furious_. That's partly why he had decided to wait so long before going out and looking for Steve, to let himself calm down. Though he now realised though just how stupid that idea was. Steve could be anywhere. He could have stopped anywhere along the way for a rest, to take shelter from the worsening weather, to sit and feel bad about what Bucky had said. It had occurred to Bucky a matter of times now that in his outburst, he hadn't made it abundantly clear that _he was angry because he cared, Steve._

 _How else is a guy supposed to feel when his best pal nearly kills himself over five bucks?_ he reasoned. It didn't even matter though, the dilemma was the same. Steve hadn't made it home yet. Bucky idly gazed at some papers loosely tacked to the wall. They were mostly Steve's drawings: smooth charcoal faces with dark eyes and sharp noses, hands and feet that seemed to be in motion with the dynamic they had been drawn in, Bucky's shoes and camera and suspender clips. There was even one of Bucky. Steve had drawn that one in stubborn determination, on a rainy day after Bucky had jokingly dared him to do it. It looked nice enough, Steve had done a fine job, until you looked closer and read the smooth calligraphy on the side that beautifully spelled, " _Jerk_ " and had a little arrow leading off from one of the letter tails and pointed at Bucky. The charming sarcasm of it always made Bucky smile. And it didn't fail now either, until he remembered where Steve _wasn't._

_What's takin' him so long?!_

A new idea suddenly hit Bucky like a wall, twisting his stomach in a knot and making him feel ill. He nearly lost his balance on his way to the bed to grab his coat. 

_What if Steve wasn't coming home?_

Bucky didn't care how slim his chances were of finding him, he would shout until all of New York was awake and looking for Steve. He had one arm through a coat sleeve when he yanked open the door to the outside and rushed through, only to skid to a stop because Steve was _right there_ , making his way up the steps. Bucky stared at him incredulously for a moment, before starting towards him heatedly. Now that he had him back, he looked fine, he was still standing, Bucky could be mad again. 

"yOU LITTLE-" he started, but just as he got close enough, he saw there were tears running down Steve's face. Bucky's temper melted away instantly and he freed his arm from his coat and wrapped it around Steve, pulling him the rest of the way up the stairs. Not even sure himself if it was from relief or what ever else he was feeling, he couldn't hold back an almost whispered, "Fuck, Steve."

Steve wasn't even bothering to wipe his nose or eyes as he let himself be tugged inside from the freezing wind. His own clothes were mostly wet, especially the seat of his pants where he had been sat down in an alleyway for the better part of an hour, considering his options. Feeling the warmth of Bucky near him now though, he almost regretted wanting to stay the night in that alley. Feeling the weight of Bucky's arm around his shoulders and his other hand holding the coat tight around the front made Steve forget that everything was wrong, if only for a second. The second ended when they were through the door and Bucky was bolting it shut and Steve looked around and remembered just how useless he was. Bucky _should_ be mad at him for causing this trouble. Steve looked at his wet shoes as his eyes watered up again. 

"Steve-" Bucky started softly. Steve sniffed,

"I just wanted to be worth something." 

"God fucking _dammit_ , Steve." Bucky quavered, and moved forward to hug Steve just as he was moving his hands up to wipe his face, trapping them awkwardly up against Bucky's chest. He wept softly into Bucky's shirt, and Bucky thought he heard a muffled _I'm sorry_ , but he wasn't sure so he didn't reply. He held the embrace a moment more before gently pushing Steve back, holding his shoulders to keep him standing. Steve wiped at his face, shivering so hard he was shaking. As close as Bucky came to saying what he wanted to, (You're an idiot, Steve), he refrained, and opted to just keep his mouth shut. He helped Steve out of his soaked jacket and walked him over to the armchair, where he plopped him down and wrapped him in a blanket. He knelt in front of him and pulled off his (also soaked) shoes, making a mental reminder to pick up a new newspaper when he could. With Steve like this, he wasn't totally sure when he would be getting back to work. 

"m-m-I'm sor-sorry, Buck," Steve stuttered, shivering. Bucky looked up to see the colour was gone from his face and watched him try again weakly, "... real sorry." 

"Nah, s'alright, you just sit tight, gonna make you somethin' hot to eat, warm you up." 

Steve gave a half-hearted and shaky nod, so Bucky got to work a few feet away in the tiny kitchen.

Oatmeal would have to do.   


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time considered letting up for a moment, just to torture Steve with the pressure of Bucky's lips against his hand against Steve's lips, to make sure he would really remember Bucky breathing through his nose that was just barely grazing his, to ingrain in Steve's mind permanently how it felt to be pushed against a wall in an alleyway and not feel trapped by it, not ever wanting to leave. Steve hadn't even noticed he'd closed his eyes. 
> 
> Bucky had.

For the first time in nearly as long as he could accurately remember, Steve was feeling genuinely... _happy_. He was trotting alongside Bucky up the calm early morning street. The only sounds were the cars that occasionally rumbled by and some pleasantly cheerful birds going about their social business above. Mostly though, it was just Steve and Bucky's shoes on the pavement, a steady rhythm with the occasional scrape or kick of a stray pebble. The sun wasn't quite up yet. The streets were foggy and grey and beautiful. Steve wondered why he hadn't ever noticed how absolutely wonderful this time of day was. He usually wasn't up, and if he was, he didn't have much of a reason to go out. But right now he was here, and he was happy. He had hope, too.   
  
They were on a job hunt.   
  
It had been a week since Steve had expressed how worthless he felt ( _by nearly killing himself, so desperate to get me five dollars that he shovelled mud tryin' to dig a ditch in the sleet and had an asthma attack they told me, fuckin' fainted in the freezing mud, had to be dragged out by the boss man and ended up with five dollars anyway because the guy felt bad,_ Bucky told one of his fellow dock workers on a lunch break), and Bucky had been doing everything in his power to make sure Steve was recovering alright from his _additional_ near night spent in the sleet in an alley somewhere, while being careful not to specifically mention the details of what had happened. Steve noticed this, of course, and whether it was out of Bucky's not wanting to embarrass Steve or just not wanting to seem too sappy, Steve didn't care. He was grateful. He wasn't totally sure exactly how much Bucky had figured out though. He didn't want him to, really. Didn't want to seem dramatic. At the same time, he desperately wanted Bucky to know and understand how he felt. He decided there wouldn't be anything to regret saying if he just...didn't say anything, so he didn't mention it. He had been horribly ill for the entire next week as a result of coming home soaking wet, and had been very much at Bucky's mercy.    
  
Bucky didn't have to stay home with him when he was at his worst for the first two days, burning up of fever. Bucky didn't have to carry him to the tub to clean off the throw-up in the middle of the night because Steve couldn't do it himself. Bucky didn't have to wake up in the middle of the night periodically to check Steve's temperature and rub him down with a wet cloth when it was much too high. Bucky didn't have to make him breakfast and leave him something for lunch when he inevitably had to go back to work. Bucky didn't have to be nice to Steve about it all, tactfully changing some subjects and courteously avoiding others, like the fact that this was completely Steve's fault. He most certainly didn't have to buy Steve new shoes. He didn't have to bring him the newspapers, or an art magazine he found, or some (lightly used) drawing pencils. He didn't have to get the little bit of brown sugar to surprise Steve with on his oatmeal the next morning, but he did.   
  
He did, he did, and he did.   
  
Steve was mad at Bucky at first about the shoes, " _COULDA USED THE MONEY FOR A HELL OF A LOT MORE THAN SHOES, BUCK!" (he paused for a fit of coughing) "I DON'T EVEN GO OUT ENOUGH TO NEED 'EM_ " but when Bucky had listened to his rant with nothing but a smile, Steve stopped and Bucky told him " _I'm takin' you to find a job bright and early tomorrow morning, so you better not waste all your breathe shoutin' at me, Steve, you're gonna need it to talk someone into hiring you._ " And then Steve didn't really know what to say to him. He had opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Bucky's smile had only grown. " _You're welcome._ " he had said.   
  
And so now here they were. It's not like Steve hadn't been job searching before. In fact, he had done it so much that the term "job hunt" was basically equated in his mind to "rejection and exhaustion". But this time, Bucky was with him to encourage and help him, or so he kept telling himself.    
  
Bucky had never specifically gone out with Steve with the intention of getting Steve hired somewhere, probably more out of selfishness than anything, Bucky realised now. He had never actively opposed Steve finding employment of course, but he couldn't help but vaguely hope it wouldn't work out. He felt bad about it, sure. But he could never shake the feelings of selfish satisfaction that _Steve needed him_. Steve had accepted becoming his roommate as what seemed like a last resort, and Bucky couldn't quite erase the idea that Steve would leave him once he could support himself well enough. He really did feel guilty.   
  
But today he was determined. Steve's break-down last week had hit Bucky like a slap in the face he wasn't expecting, and he felt terribly guilty for not having realised sooner just how Steve felt about himself, and how he seemed to measure his self worth in terms of productivity. Maybe that was why he drew so much; if he wasn't physically able to do anything else, he couldn't stand not having something to show for his time. Steve was meant for great things, and it weighed in him like an ocean, strong and determinate, and while Bucky knew this ocean was often the source of his strength, he also knew it would just as readily drown him.   
  
He wistfully thought of this sometimes when he looked into Steve's eyes, as blue and deep as the ocean he imagined. He tried not to do it often.   
  
They neared a sweet potato vendor's cart. Bucky charmingly declined when the elderly vendor offered two hot and fresh potatoes for a generous price of just a bit more than one. The day was chilly, cold enough to see the steam of your breath if you held still, but it was a welcome change from the below freezing weather that had been haunting the city for the past month. The cars that sputtered past were growing in number as the grey morning progressed, their engines and tires echoing about through the streets.    
  
Steve noticed the small messenger bag Bucky was carrying wasn't the one he usually took to work, and realised at this point that he wasn't entirely sure where Bucky was even taking him.   
  
"Are we going somewhere specific, or did you just want to take me for a stroll?" Steve joked.   
  
"You wish. No, I had a place in mind, down near the docks. Saw somethin' the other day, thought it'd be right up your alley."   
  
Near the docks. Steve's mind raced. Would he walk to work and home with Bucky every day? Their hours were not likely to match up of course, but that wouldn't stop him from waiting if he was done sooner. Maybe he could even work overtime to make their shifts match up. He didn't even know what the job was, but he was already so excited. If Bucky thought it'd be perfect for him, it had to be ideal. He could only hope he was right for the job.    
  
Bucky turned a corner and Steve slowed to follow him to avoid a puddle that took up most of the sidewalk. Bucky didn't notice Steve was now directly behind him though, so when he swiftly turned around with the intention of running from the gang of boys he had spotted around the corner,  he instead ran smack into Steve, tried to catch himself, but slipped on the puddle when he tried to gain traction. They both hit the ground, and caught the boys' attention.    
  
"Hey iS THAT BARNES?" Steve heard one of the boys shout. He looked up while he was trying to stand up, but it wasn't easy with Bucky grabbing at him trying to push him back out of sight of the gang.    
  
"IT IS," another one of them shouted. Steve saw them starting towards them, and, of course, though he wanted to stay and settle whatever this matter was instead of run from it, he'd have to be naive to think that the five boys with angry tones in their voices coming this way would have the patience for anything less than immediate gratification. AKA, Bucky was in trouble with them somehow, and judging by the way he was pulling Steve's hand to quickly follow him back the way they came, they probably wanted money or blood. They didn't have money, and Steve didn't want to see blood, so he took a breath and started running behind Bucky.    
  
"WHERE YA GOIN', BARNES? THOUGHT YOU HAD SOMETHIN' FOR US," one of them shouted behind them, and Steve could tell that they had taken up pursuit. Bucky didn't respond, only kept running, turning back to make sure Steve was still behind him every few seconds.    
  
At this very moment in time, Bucky wasn't even so much concerned with the gang of boys on his tail so much as what they would do to Steve if they caught up. He knew they weren't after Steve. Not yet anyway. He weighed his options as fast as they would play out in his mind. He thought about shoving Steve down an upcoming side road, where he would fall and scrape his hands on the pavement and watch the gang pass him by as they pursued Bucky. If he was smart, he would stay there till they were gone, then find the quickest route back home and wait for Bucky. But if one of the gang members saw him, or if Steve gave himself up and followed anyway (like Bucky knew he would), Bucky didn't have time to _or want_ to think about how it would end. He knew it hadn't been a good idea to ever interact with these guys, but it hadn't really crossed his mind that Steve would ever get mixed up in it, even though it was only because of Steve that he had. Idiot. He didn't really have any choice except to try and lose them. He cursed to himself as he turned a corner where he knew was a small outdoor market. It would all be different if Steve wasn't here.    
  
Steve thought he heard Bucky cursing as they rounded a corner, suddenly surrounded by early morning market grocers, still setting up their tables and carts. There were shouts behind him as their pursuers gained on them. Steve was breathing hard, his lungs stinging with the cold air, his ribs aching from the effort of it.    
  
"Buck," he managed, hoping to convey that he couldn't do this forever, in case Bucky had forgotten.    
  
"The next alley," Bucky responded, motioning just up ahead.    
  
The gang was about three seconds behind them now, only slightly put off by the action in the market place. They neared the alley that Steve assumed they were going to turn into, but instead, Bucky ran straight into the street in front of a parked freezer truck, and with Steve wheezing right behind him, ran around the rear of the truck and back onto the sidewalk, where they then darted into the alleyway while their pursuers were struggling to track their odd path into the road. Bucky shoved Steve into a small inlet in the brick building's wall about seven feet from the opening, and crowded up against him, hoping they would be invisible from the street.    
  
The gears of time seemed to slow as soon as Steve's back hit the wall. He noticed some stray snowflakes flutter through the air, so slowly that they were hardly moving, as Bucky moved in towards him. He was looking out to the street, the brand new sunlight catching in his blowing hair like gold. Steve's hands seemed to think Bucky was moving too fast, and reached out to slow his approach, but ended up being awkwardly trapped between the two of them, resting on Bucky's chest when he had finally stopped and was quietly pressed up against Steve. Bucky was looking up and towards the side now, because the small rectangular space was too shallow for them both to keep their heads straight towards each other (with adequate space between them) and stay out of sight. His palms were resting on the wall above Steve, effectively trapping him entirely. Time seemed so close to stopping entirely, that even Steve's thoughts were simplified and drawn out so long that they imprinted themselves in his mind in perfect clarity.    
  
Like Bucky's lips, for example. He had obviously seen Bucky's lips before, but this, right now, seemed completely new. They were red, _so red_ , red from the cold air and from him biting them now, _right now_. They were close, so close, _too_ close, three inches from Steve's eyes when he exhaled from his chest and brought them closer, warm air spiralling out in a greyish puff and dissolving into the cold. More snowflakes were falling around them now, being blown in their direction by the stinging cold wind, wind that should have been stinging if Steve hadn't been completely numb to it in this moment. This moment in which Steve noticed that Bucky's lightly freckled cheeks and nose were flushed pink from the cold, his soft brown hair blowing about in slow motion near his grey marble eyes, his eyelashes that were so long and pretty that Steve couldn't think of another word in the world to describe them. Pretty like his lips that were so red and wet and _close_.   
  
Too close.   
  
Steve's breath hitched as time regained its grasp on him, its gears creaking and pulling forward again, speeding up back to what normal should be, and Steve suddenly couldn't catch his breath. He couldn't take in oxygen fast enough, deep enough, and Bucky's goddamn pretty lips two inches away and Bucky's hips pressed right up against his certainly wasn't helping when his blood decided to redirect itself _downwards_. Dear God, no.    
  
Steve could feel _what-he-really-didn't-want-right-now_ in his pants, and decided to speak up to get Bucky to give him at least an inch or two because _Jesus Christ_ , Bucky's warm heaving chest was only pressing him harder, against Steve's hands that were still resting on it. He could feel Bucky's racing heart and his muscles and   
  
this was all new. Steve couldn't put a finger on what he was feeling exactly but it was certainly new.    
  
"Buck, you're gonna squish m-mpHF," he started between breaths, maybe louder than he should have, but was cut off when Bucky made it all worse and covered his mouth with his hand. Bucky turned to look at him and did move his hips away just an inch, which was enough for now, better than being flat out pressed up against him, but at the cost of being forced to move his head closer if he wanted to stay out of view of the street. So now, Bucky's hand and just a breath of space was the only thing separating their mouths. Steve willed time to slow down again, pleaded with it to let him catch his breath, to let him make sense of what he had called Bucky's eyelashes a few seconds ago. But time refused, and made him suffer along with everyone else. Bucky was staring him down now, his grey eyes glued to Steve's, too close to be in perfect focus, but not so far that Steve couldn't count all his goddamn eyelashes if he wanted to. Bucky sure was being careful about not getting caught by these specific people, Steve thought, trying to distract himself.    
  
But God, his eyes. His eyes, the dull grey mixture of aquamarine freckles, like planets and nebulas that pulled Steve in with their gravity and depth, had never really been paid much attention to, had never really seemed extraordinary. _Bucky_ , Steve thought. _It's Bucky. Why is this new?_  The rust coloured bricks behind Steve reflected in them now, turning them a cold mud coloured mess of something that made Steve's heart flutter, only confusing him more. _It's just Bucky_ , he repeated in his head. _It's Bucky._ It seemed like more of a question than a statement.    
  
Bucky blinked lightly, and looked down and off to the side, so now all Steve could see was his eyelids as they moved about like they were searching for something else worth looking at. If time was to be trusted, it had been about thirty seconds since the small gang had apparently lost track of them, so he was probably listening to hear that they were gone. It felt like an eternity.    
  
They were both still breathing hard, so of course the distance between them differed slightly from second to second as their chests (pressed together) moved out of sync, until Bucky seemed to give up and close his eyes and just .. lean his forehead in to rest on Steve's.    
  
Time considered letting up for a moment, just to torture Steve with the pressure of Bucky's lips against his hand against Steve's lips, to make sure he would _really remember_ Bucky breathing through his nose that was just barely grazing his, to ingrain in Steve's mind permanently how it felt to be pushed against a wall in an alleyway and not feel trapped by it, not ever wanting to leave. Steve hadn't even noticed he'd closed his eyes.    
  
Bucky had. It had taken him a quiet moment of relief filled apprehension to regain his bearings and then open his eyes, just to see Steve's closed. He was too filled with relief at not having been caught to think anything of it. He gently leaned away from Steve, his head lifting up while he turned so that his lips ended up brushing Steve's nose just a bit in passing. It was cold. He leaned back to peer around the wall to make sure the immediate coast was clear, so naturally, his hips moved forward to balance him, and he heard Steve make a small noise. Bucky realised he was still holding his hand over Steve's mouth and slowly let his hand drop. He was distracted by watching the street though, so since his only real thought regarding his hand was basically "off of Steve's mouth," it ended up dragging lightly along Steve's jaw line, down his jacket collar, somehow coming to rest on Steve's wrists that he hadn't noticed were still resting on his chest.     
  
Bucky backed away slowly, halfway expecting one of the boys to jump out of hiding and demand payment. Payment for the otherwise unattainable and very necessary medicine that Bucky had bartered for from them last week when Steve was at his worst. Steve would not be happy finding out that this was in essence only because of him, and Bucky really didn't want him to know anyways, more for stupid sentimental reasons than Steve's pride. What Bucky didn't know though, was that while he was stepping quietly away from Steve towards the entrance of the alley to look down the street, very very relieved that this seemed to be over for now, Steve had melted in the inlet in the wall where he'd left him, completely overwhelmed and very _very_ confused. While Bucky turned around expecting to get a mildly stern talk about how he can't run from his problems forever, he was met with the sight of Steve crumpled on the ground quietly catching his breath.    
  
"Steve?" he called softly, already starting back towards his best friend. When he knelt in front of him, he noticed Steve's cheeks were flushed bright red, probably more than they should have been from the cold alone. He was still breathing hard, and seemed somewhat dazed. "You okay, pal?" he prodded gently, "Sorry about that, those guys, I mean. I didn't want to make a thing of it on the way to your job interview, you know? Gotta keep you looking spiffy for it." He saw Steve shake his head lightly, which meant that he understood and it was no problem. Or, that's what Bucky got from it. Bucky looked at his watch, to the street, at Steve's shoes, then back at Steve's pink face. He waited a moment, then asked with complete sincerity and care, "You still need a minute?" to which Steve nodded slightly, his eyes not having left the ground in front of Bucky yet. Bucky shuffled to the side so that he was facing the street and could still see Steve, and patiently sat down and listened to the market vendors going about their morning business.    
  
About forty seconds later, Steve stood up on his own and looked down at Bucky, his already golden hair illuminated in the sunlight that was highlighting his outline, making him look absolutely ethereal.    
  
"You wanna tell me where we're goin' yet?"   
  
  
-   
  
  
"Congratulations, Steve, you have a real job now," Bucky said, trying to hide his excitement and pride with a sarcastic tone.    
  
"Yeah, but I really wish you would've told me what it was first, instead of stealing my sketchbook and bringing it without telling me," Steve replied, completely serious. Bucky thought something was odd about Steve, maybe he wasn't excited enough at being employed now, maybe he hadn't really looked at Bucky since the delay in the alley on the way here, but whatever it was, he was nervous he'd screwed up somehow. He realized yes, it was probably crossing a line or two to bring Steve's drawings along like that to help get Steve hired to be _an illustrator for a magazine_ , but wasn't it worth the surprise and success? Besides,    
  
"This is the only one you show me drawings out of, I thought you wouldn't mind.. Too much."    
  
"What?" Steve asked him, a mix of surprise and annoyance in his tone. He glanced over at Bucky, walking along next to him.    
  
"Oh come on, I know you have that other one that you keep hidden up behind the mattress," Bucky confessed, hoping Steve would take it lightly, as he was scared to annoy him any further. Maybe he should just. Stop talking.    
  
"You looked through it?" Steve asked him, stopping in his tracks, his eyes imploring Bucky to say no. God, he looked _scared_. Seeing his vulnerability and wanting it to go away, Bucky told him the truth.   
  
"No! No, I only know it's there because that's where I was gonna hide a box of cigarettes," he told him, adding a chuckle at the end to make it seem like it wasn't a big deal. Which it really wasn't to Bucky. Steve deserved to keep private whatever dark secrets lied within the sketchbook under the head of the bed. He respected Steve not sharing whatever it was he didn't want to share, just as a best friend and housemate should. He had in fact, decided to not even be curious, just in case he'd be tempted to look, shutting down any thoughts about it whenever they popped up. He hadn't even remembered it existed until a few minutes ago. He didn't care. Or so he kept reminding himself.    
  
Steve only stared at him with more concern, though.    
  
"I promise you, I have absolutely no idea what is in that book."   
  
"How'd you know it's a sketchbook, then?" Steve challenged, covering his betrayal and fear with anger. Shit. What if Steve didn't believe him? Would he ever be forgiven for something he didn't even do? Then he remembered,   
  
"The cover fucking says 'sketchbook' on it, you punk," but it probably came across too defensively.   
  
"So you picked it up?" Steve retorted.   
  
"Yeah, of course I picked it up, there's a random fucking book behind the bed where I wanted to hide something, of course I picked it up. But you know what? I saw 'sketchbook' in pretty letters on the front and guess what? I put it back. I don't care what's in there, it's yours," Bucky told him, almost wishing he was lying so he'd have something else to hide behind. All he had was something that wasn't working and couldn't be changed. Steve only stared at him searchingly, and Bucky tried his best to open his heart so Steve could see straight through him and get rid of all the doubt. "Steve," he started softly, honestly, pleadingly, "I didn't open it. Honest."    
  
Steve sighed and looked down, then after a moment shook his head slightly.   
  
"Okay," he said defenseless, almost sadly, like his only choice was to believe Bucky, which in a way it really was. "Well I can.. walk myself home so.. Hope you have a good day at work." He started to turn and walk away from Bucky, before turning to the side and adding softly, “Thank you though, for the job,” he looked up and managed a small smile. “I’ll see you after work,” he concluded with a small nod, and began his walk home. 

  
Bucky didn’t stop him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this, and your comments really mean so much! I'm sorry it was so long since the last update, I've been having a really hard time, but I already have laid out the plot and scenes for the next few chapters, so expect update a lot faster!! Thank you so much for reading! <3


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve does a lot of thinking and worrying about Bucky and his secret sketchbook, Bucky finishes business from that morning. A very long day for both of them.

At some point along his walk, Steve realised he must've missed the road home, since his mind had been entirely swept away with a storm of thoughts, not even vaguely focused on where he was supposed to be going. He did have a lot to think about, after all. The primary thought that was gnawing at his stomach was the terrible uncertainty that came from the knowledge that Bucky knew where his  _ other _ sketchbook was. God, Steve was completely defenceless when it came to that. He felt sick, and decided to sit down for a little while, on a bench inside a small convenience store. A bell rang when he entered, and a friendly looking girl stepped out of the back room to greet him, a broom in hand. Steve was already collapsing onto the bench before she could say anything, changing her would-be-greeting into a sympathetic question of concern.   
  
"Are you alright, sir?" she asked kindly, and Steve looked up at her to see she looked surprisingly genuine.    
  
"Yeah, I uh. Would you mind if I just sat here? For a minute? Or I could-" he pointed a finger at the door swiftly, making sure she knew he would leave without a fuss or question.   
  
"Oh, no, of course!" she replied with a smile. "The weather is getting pretty bad out there, isn't it? Stay as long as you need," she concluded, waving him off, and then started sweeping the floor idly. Steve looked out the display window and realised, oh, yes, the snow was falling quite heavily now. He hadn't even noticed.    
  
His thoughts returned to him in a swift blow, making his stomach lurch again. He tried to reason himself to calm down, just to get rid of the anxious sensation that was making him ill.  _ Okay then, what's the problem? Bucky knows about the sketchbook. So there's a fifty-fifty chance that he's seen everything I've put in it. But that's another matter in itself. So, what are the chances Bucky opened it? What would you have done? I would have opened it, maybe flipped through, then put it back, _ Steve reasoned, not sure if he was helping himself or not. He kept going, hoping to explore all outcomes and potential solutions. If there were any. So,  _ so maybe nothing caught my eye, I put it back. Done. But what if something did _ , and then there was no positive outcome, so Steve stopped that train of thought. Next scenario.  _ Bucky said he didn't look inside it though, and _ .. and then Steve didn't know, because he wanted to believe Bucky with all his heart, but it wasn't like Bucky had never lied to him before. It wasn't like Bucky's usual method of communication wasn't lying, whether jokingly or seriously, and for all he was worth, Steve still had a really hard time telling the difference. Steve had never been a good lie detector, all he knew was for the few times he'd caught Bucky doing it, he could only wonder at how many times he hadn't. So really, he wasn't sure. There was no way to figure if Bucky was telling the truth.    
  
Next problem, then.    
  
_ What's in the sketchbook that you're so worried about? _ Steve tried to recall exactly what was in it, what exactly he would have to craft up an explanation for later. That book had been a gift from a school teacher years ago, and Steve hadn't even shown his mother, knowing she would have taken note of its quality (and therefore, cost) and either urge him to return it, or even if she didn't, he would feel obliged to sell it anyway. Thirteen year old Steven Grant Rogers decided to be selfish for once, and kept it all to himself. He hadn't even showed Bucky, his best (and arguably only) friend. Not another soul had ever seen inside it, had ever seen the self indulgent dynamic drawings of whatever he liked, the many quotes and thoughts that went with them, the memories and secrets of one Steve Rogers. He had never once worried about censoring his thoughts or its content because it was never meant for anyone but himself to see.    
  
So now he had to assume that his only hope was the level of embarrassment he could get away with  _ not  _ having, which depended on the level of causality he could pass with when the situation inevitably came that he would have to explain every last one of the drawings and bits of writing to Bucky. He thought of Bucky's doubtful eyes and questioning tone when he flipped through the pages and found another sketch of himself, paired with a quote (something stupid and sentimental that had temporarily made Steve's heart sing, that he wouldn't be able to pass off without seeming obsessive), another painfully detailed drawing of Bucky's hair, or his hands, or his eyes,...his...eyes...   
  
Which reminded Steve of what else had been troubling him. What the  _ hell _ had he been thinking for those seconds(?) in the alleyway? His usually fuzzy memory could still recall perfectly both what he had seen and what he had thought, but mostly the one word that stood out most, when he had called Bucky's eyelashes...  _ pretty _ . He had never thought of Bucky as,  _ God he didn't even want to say it again _ , like  _ that _ before, and he couldn't even think of doing it now. Steve looked up at the girl in front of him, who had put down the broom and had moved on to straightening little bags of flour that lined a shelf.  _ She _ is pretty. See? How her soft brown hair frames her face, gently curled strands resting softly against her cheeks that were curved like she was meant to be a marble statue in a museum, her pink lips like... like...   
  
Steve was reminded of Bucky's lips, hot and red (and oh god, so close) that seemed so contrasted to what "pretty" should be like, and yet seemed to grant the word a deeper, more effective meaning. Bucky's lips, that were shiny wet after he bit the bottom one, so dark against his pale face in the cold, their dramatically curved shape, but mostly how goddamn  _ red _ ... and then Steve remembered what had happened in his pants that caused Bucky to press his hand over his mouth when Steve asked for space.    
  
Steve's jaw clenched, as he tried to reason out any solution as to why  _ that _ had happened, owing it up to being something that just  _ happens _ sometimes, and it wasn't worth stressing about.  _ I'm not…  _  Steve told himself, having pushed away the notion enough that he finally was forced to face it head on.  _ I'm not.. a fairy-- _   
  
"If you're gonna say something, can you just say it instead of starin' at me?" the girl suddenly said, sounding off put, but still composed. Steve realised he had been staring at her collarbone while he had been thinking.    
  
"Oh, sorry I was, I wasn't thinking, um," he clumsily stood up, grabbed his bag off the floor, and started for the door. "I'll go, I'm sorry."   
  
"You not gonna buy anything?" she called after Steve, who was already stepping outside into the snow storm. Partly not wanting to hold her up any longer, mostly not able to think of the right words in time, Steve only waved at his pockets sympathetically, hoping she understood.    
  
He walked for about a block into the wind until he realised he was going the wrong way, home was, home was north from here. Right?   
  
-   
  
The afternoon passed slowly, the evening even slower, Steve's unrelenting thoughts consuming the quiet space of the apartment for hours. At some point, in the middle of working up the courage to visit the sketchbook behind the bed, he couldn't stand it anymore and decided to curl up and go to sleep instead. His dreams surrounded him with softness and peaceful adventure for a time, but left him completely despaired to wake up where he had been a little while ago. He blinked at the ceiling, wondering what time it was. It was still bright outside, but the snow had stuck thick enough that it had to at least have been an hour or two, maybe.    
  
The room was cold. He hadn't gotten under his or Bucky's blanket when he had gone to sleep earlier, so now he shivered absentmindedly while he watched more snow gather on the windowsill outside.    
  
Snow. Bucky loved snow. He loved walking through it, he loved eating it (even when Steve scoldingly asked him if he knew where it'd been), he loved rolling it into balls and throwing it at the back of Steve's coat (there was an unspoken rule about snow in each other's faces). And that was when he was  _ outside _ . Steve would have to be blind to not notice how childishly excited Bucky got when it snowed. Bucky had even told him before how much he loved the way it sparkled when it hadn't been touched yet, how it piled up round and smooth and white and perfect. Steve imagined how nice it would be, Bucky coming home to the snow just starting to pile up outside, probably making them both some hot tea or something, and then wrapping himself up in his blanket and settling on the bed next to Steve with a book. But...   
  
But then any pleasant thought of Bucky was immediately tainted with guilt. Steve couldn't even imagine a possible future for himself with Bucky that wasn't heavy with the looming weight of  _ the sketchbook _ . The unrest of not having Bucky there was killing him, wondering at (and not having a clue) what Bucky was thinking, what he thought of Steve. With no reactions to gauge because  _ Bucky simply wasn't there to regulate and rationalise Steve's ideas _ , his worry and guilt only grew.   
  
Steve forced himself to go back to sleep, lying as still as he could with his eyes shut for a torturously long time until he didn't have to think about doing it anymore, and his dreams carried him away, granting him some temporary, yet unknown and unappreciated, relief.    
  
-   
  
He awoke some time later to noise from the upstairs neighbours, and decided to get up. The light from outside was dim, and the snow had gathered about three inches. He looked at the clock that hung on the wall on Bucky’s side of the room, noting it was nearly 5 o’clock. Bucky should be getting home soon, and Steve had the idea that maybe if he was asleep when he got home, they wouldn't have a chance to talk until morning, and that seemed like a good idea. The notion of Bucky simply being back with him, but not being able to acknowledge the sketchbook, sounded overwhelmingly pleasant, and so Steve decided that was the best thing he could do. He reached up around the back of the mattress and retrieved the book, but deciding he was feeling too okay at the moment to spoil his mood by looking inside and finding something new to feel bad about.    
  
Their shared apartment was, in the truest definition of the word, small. The kitchen/dining room/entrance was probably over a third of the entire space, and it was only about eight by ten feet long. It's space was consumed by a low line of cabinets that held a sink and an oven, a door to a tiny bathroom, and two chairs surrounding a bathtub that they covered the top of to use as a dining room table. There were some cabinets over the white rectangular porcelain sink, but they tended to be generally empty, more often than not.    
  
This space was directly connected to the bedroom, only separated by some segments of wall on each side that stuck out a third of the way each, leaving just a space where a door might've been. The wall partitions both had old windows taking up most of the top halves, but with the glass removed, so really, the idea that more than two rooms even  _ existed _ in this apartment was  only theoretical. They still called it a kitchen, dining room, and bedroom though. They didn't have reason to complain, either. Steve and Bucky didn't mind the small space at all, if anything, it was simple and cozy and all they needed. It was theirs, from the brown wallpaper with faded patterns to the broken tiles in the bathroom. It was home, and they were happy to have it.   
  
It didn't leave much for hiding places though. They did each have slightly different bedside tables, Steve's with two small shelves and Bucky's with one top drawer and one lower shelf, covered in books. They generally kept out of each other's personal spaces, so since Steve wasn't actively trying to conceal this sketchbook’s existence anymore, he just crammed it in among some other books and a box that were on his lower shelf. The odd place behind the mattress hadn't been a  _ bad _ hiding place, as Bucky said, he'd only found it because he was trying to hide something himself. Still, he should have been more careful.    
  
But Bucky should have been  _ home _ by now.

  
Steve wondered if he'd been late to work because of helping Steve with his job and now he was making up for it. It was Saturday after all though, so he'd definitely have stopped on the way to get food to bring home for the week. Steve would have made him some dinner to come home to, if there had been anything to eat. So Steve decided to undress and get into bed properly and wait for Bucky there.    
  
-   
  
Somewhere else in Brooklyn, Bucky was walking in the opposite direction from home, heading off to settle his unfinished business from that morning. His hands buried deep in his pockets, clutching tight what money he had to pay, he hoped that it would be enough to let him off with a warning and only light injuries, maybe a punch or two. God, straight up running from them this morning hadn't done him any good, but what else was he supposed to do? He'd told them he needed the drugs for his little brother, and Steve wouldn't have known about that story if they'd been caught. He didn't want them seeing Steve at all, on the off chance Steve was out by himself one day, and one of them caught up with him, and demanded explanations or payment as a result of Bucky's bidding. So far, things were still holding together though, so as long as this went as smoothly as it could, Bucky would be off the hook for a little while. The pub was only a block away now.   
  
A cold gust of air hit the back of his neck, making him shiver. He slowed his pace a bit, trying to summon his courage before smooth talking his way through this as best as he could. He went over what he thought would happen in his head again, as he crunched through the fresh fallen snow. He'd go inside, sit at a booth while he scoped out the place, then once he'd spotted the gang member he was told to return money to, he would tell him 'this is everything I have' and give him the money. The gang member would respond with something along the lines of 'not everything', and then he would be led to the gang  _ leader _ , and then probably outside for what he hoped would be light punishment. Maybe the cold weather would deter them from wanting to stay out too long. Maybe the snow would be his saviour.   
  
Jesus. This sure would be fun. The door to the pub was only a few more steps away, and the snow was thickening into fat snowflake clumps that would have been  _ lovely _ if not for his current situation. Steve liked snow, Bucky thought. Didn't he? He thought of Steve, how hurt and nervous he'd looked that morning when Bucky had brought up the sketchbook. He regretted doing that now. Even if Bucky felt better for having been honest about knowing about it, that couldn't be much comfort to Steve when something so important to him rested on something as relative as Bucky's word.  _ Steve _ , God, he couldn't wait to get back home to Steve. He should have been home by now, actually.    
  
He hoped this wouldn't take long.    
  
-   
  
The next thing Steve knew, he heard someone struggling with the lock on the front door, and knew Bucky was finally back. It had to be the middle of the night now. Steve threw aside his blanket and was immediately met with the chilly air of the room while he struggled to pull on his pants in the dark. He made it to the lamp on the dining room table just as Bucky opened the door and stepped inside, a small snow flurry blowing in with him. Once he had shut the door quietly, Steve turned on the light.    
  
Bucky slowly turned his head to see him standing next to the table, about six feet away. Steve realised Bucky didn't have any shopping bags with him like he  _ should _ have, and he looked disheveled. God help him if he'd been out drinking  _ this late _ , because that was one thing Steve would absolutely not stand for. His hair was messy and wet, and hung down so far it almost covered his eyes. His coat looked dirty, and was spotted with where snow had melted on him. He had only turned halfway, so Steve could only see his profile, and he was keeping his head low, trying to take advantage of the dim light and heavy shadows of the lamp.    
  
"You're up late," he said through gritted teeth.   
  
"You're home late," Steve threw back, not about to let him off easy. Steve glanced back to see what time it was. It was almost midnight, Bucky should've been here  _ hours _ ago.    
  
"I had some fffff-extra work," he managed halfheartedly, shaking his head and waving it off. His other hand still hadn't left the door handle, and he seemed to be leaning on it pretty heavily. He wasn't even trying to cover himself with good excuses, apparently. Steve only tilted his head at him, because surely that wasn't all he could come up with. Bucky only covered his eyes and shook his head. "Can you just.. turn the light off," he managed, sounding exhausted.    
  
"Why?"   
  
"Because it's bright? Please, I've got a headache I just wanna go to bed," he answered, and that should have told Steve that he was drunk, but Steve had seen Bucky drunk before and this didn't seem  _ right _ . Alcohol usually had a more positive effect on Bucky, made him more excitable, more carefree. It had never given him headaches. Something was wrong.   
  
"Turn it off yourself," Steve told him, and Bucky looked slightly taken aback by Steve's sudden impertinence.    
  
"What?"   
  
"Walk over here, and turn off the light."    
  
"Steve-"   
  
"Why don't you take off your shoes, Buck, they're wet."   
  
"Steve don't be an ass, come on, just turn off the-"   
  
"What, you can't just walk over here and do it yourself since you want it off so bad, go ahead," Steve said, side stepping away from the lamp, feeling empathetic and a little guilty for trapping Bucky like this, but not enough to give in. He knew if he waited much longer though, he might, but only because it was  _ Bucky _ and only because he was so relieved to have him home  _ at all _ after today. But Bucky owed him an honest explanation at least. "I mean come on, Bucky, I know you weren't at a job, is that the best you can come up with?"   
  
"Steve-" Bucky managed weakly, starting to slump over a little, his eyes on the ground in front of him.   
  
"What? You gonna tell me?" Steve interrupted, having started hard but trailing off slightly when he noted Bucky holding his stomach like that and shaking his head ever so subtly.    
  
"..m'gonna be sick, can you help me to the bathroom.." Bucky asked, and before he could finish his sentence, Steve was already by his side, lifting Bucky's arm to drape over his bony shoulders to support him, while he held loosely onto his waist and helped him the short distance to the bathroom. Steve noticed that, just as he had been afraid of, Bucky was limping really badly. They made it to the tiny bathroom just in time for Bucky to nearly collapse in front of the toilet, and painfully eject what was left of whatever he had eaten that day. Which turned out to be hardly anything at all, so Steve had to assume that he had probably already gotten sick on the way home. Once Bucky didn't have anything left, he was just leaned heavily against the wall, trying to stay up on his knees in case he got sick again. He looked utterly exhausted, and now that Steve could see the other half of his face, it was no wonder he had wanted the lights off, if not to hide his limp, then to hide the dark coloured bruises blooming all around his eye and cheek. His right eye was swollen shut (which would explain his difficulty unlocking the door) and there was a cut on his forehead that had stopped bleeding hours ago, it seemed.    
  
Steve knelt next to him (usually it was the other way around, Steve was usually the one sick) and tried to think of what Bucky would do if their roles were reversed. With that gentle guiding thought in mind, he helped Bucky out of his coat, and went to fetch him some water. When he returned with a glass, Bucky had sat himself down, his back to the wall, his feet up against the base of the toilet, and his forearms resting on his knees. There was only about two and a half feet in between the toilet and the wall it faced, so he was quite cozily propped in that space. Steve sat down next to him, and offered him the water, but Bucky only glanced at it, and then shook his head tiredly. Minutes passed in silence.   
  
"...You feel any better...?" Steve offered, hoping to lighten the mood, if only slightly.    
  
Bucky let his head fall back to rest against the wall. Steve watched him quietly, thinking about, and trying not to think about, how ( _ don't use that word again, I swear _ ) - _ pleasant- _ his profile was, even with the bad lighting of the yellow lamp from the other room. How his neck stretched up in curves to meet his chin, perfectly shaped to compliment his  _ lips _ \-- and then Steve felt self conscious and involuntarily started looking elsewhere. Elsewhere, which ended up being Bucky's hands.   
  
Bucky's hands, which Steve now saw with surprise, weren't bruised or damaged in the least.    
  
Steve recalled (for probably the first time that day) the gang of boys that had chased them into the alley that morning, and wondered if  _ this _ had to do with that.? Why hadn't Bucky fought back? What had he gotten himself into?   
  
Steve was tired, even after having slept quite a bit of the day away. He could only imagine how much more tired Bucky felt.   
  
"You don't got work tomorrow, do you?" he asked, peaking his tone with gentle hopefulness. Bucky closed his eyes and shook his head sleepily in response.  Steve stood up and grabbed a washcloth from a hook by the sink, wet it, and sat back down next to his best friend. "Do you want me to-" he started, making a motion with the cloth that said he was about to clean Bucky's face. Bucky reached over and took it from him, with a noise through gritted teeth that sounded like "I can," and started wiping off his face. When he was done, he accepted the glass of water Steve was holding out to him again, took a sip, swished it around, and spat into the toilet. Then he took a real drink, and set the glass down on the floor. He looked like he intended to spend the night there.    
  
"Don't suppose you want dinner now," Steve offered with intended humour, not sure if the irony came from the fact that it was already past midnight, or the fact that Bucky was ill, and would not be wanting dinner. Either way, Bucky let out a breath from his nose, understandably too worn out to smile, but having made an effort. Steve regarded him seriously then, "Are you hurt?" to which Bucky raised his eyebrows, and rolled his head to the side to gaze at Steve head-on, an almost amused look in his eyes. Steve got the point, "Okay, stupid question. I mean  _ badly _ ," to which Bucky only closed his eyes and let his head let his head roll back again. Steve hoped that meant no.    
  
He thought he saw Bucky start to nod off after another minute of silence, and decided to get him to bed.    
  
"Hey," he said, nudging Bucky's arm. Bucky's eyes flicked open without hesitation, he couldn't have been asleep.    
  
"I'm sorry," he muttered, his teeth still clenched tight, and so quietly that Steve almost missed it. He regarded him softly, really just happy and relieved to have him  _ here  _ to care as much as he should about anything else.   
  
"Can you walk?" Steve inquired gently. Bucky turned and looked at him, throwing away any notion that there was any problems between the two of them, and meeting Steve's gentleness with his own. He nodded once, and Steve got to his feet, then reached down and helped Bucky to his own. Bucky tried not to lean on Steve very heavily on the short walk to the bed, but he was so small and warm and  _ gentle _ with him after his long day working (and settling debts) out in the cold, that Bucky couldn't help but hold him a little tighter. Steve held him a little tighter too, but then suddenly too tightly when Bucky swayed a little and Steve overcompensated and made Bucky gasp by steadying him by his bruised ribs. Bucky was already speaking before Steve knew it was his fault.   
  
"I'm fine," he said in one swift exhale, and Steve realised what he'd done.    
  
"Sorry! I--"   
  
"No, no I said I'm fine. I'm really fine, just," he paused for a few strained breaths, "the bed"   
  
So they walked the rest of the way to Bucky's side of the bed, where Bucky stepped on the bed frame and managed to boost himself backwards and up, to sit on the edge of the bed. He swayed for a moment, lightheaded and in pain, or maybe lightheaded  _ because _ of the pain, but focusing on Steve who was standing right in front of him, keeping him steady with a hand on his shoulder and the other holding his forearm. Steve watched him patiently. They stayed like that for a minute, until Bucky looked fine enough to Steve for him to ask if he was good now. Bucky nodded, his eyes on Steve's too-big-undershirt, and the way it hung loose around his collarbone. Bucky was momentarily glad at least the heater was working, for now.    
  
"So I guess I'll turn the light off, now, just for you," Steve joked, emphasizing every word as he started towards the kitchen. When he reached the lamp and turned to look at Bucky, he hadn't expected to see him smiling at the floor, his eyes closed, feeling around the bruises on his face.   
  
God, even now, Steve was overwhelmed with the unexpected and utter relief that just Bucky's exhausted smile at something  _ he'd _ said brought about. He hadn't even noticed he'd been staring until Bucky began to look up, probably wondering why the light hadn't turned off yet. Steve flipped the switch and hopped into bed. In the dark, Steve found Bucky sitting, scooting himself backwards towards the head of the bed. Steve asked what he was doing.   
  
"I'm not feeling up to laying down yet so I'm just gonna.. sit up for a while," he answered.    
  
"Okay," Steve responded softly, and scooted himself to sit up against the wall, just before Bucky got there. He redirected Bucky slightly to lean back on  _ him _ instead of the cold wall, and Bucky didn't fight him, even readjusting so he could lean his head back and it rest comfortably on Steve's shoulder. Steve pulled him in closer, his arms wrapped around him, his head tilted to lean on Bucky's, feeling so relieved and complete with the plainly obvious fact that Bucky was  _ here _ and  _ he didn't hate him _ . He couldn't have felt better.    
  
"Why aren't you mad at me," Bucky said after an unknown amount of time had passed, and Steve was teetering on the line between sleep and consciousness.    
  
"Hm?"   
  
"You let me off too easy. All I do is get sick and suddenly you're fine with me comin' home six hours late in this shape? You didn't even keep asking where I was, like you usually would." Bucky elaborated, leaning forwards just a bit. He was right, Steve should have at least  _ tried  _ to cover up his relief at Bucky being in the wrong, just to balance out his sketchbook issue, but everything had happened too fast for him to think about being mad at Bucky. "Is it about... your book?" he inquired after a minute of thinking, and Steve's blood suddenly ran cold. God, he hated that feeling. He didn't move, didn't trust himself to speak, and Bucky felt him tense up. "Steve?"   
  
Resigned, Steve told him the truth, "I've never shown anyone that book," and his tone bordered dangerously on betrayal. Bucky knew what he meant, and for the life of him just wanted Steve to  _ believe _ him about this, about this one thing.   
  
"I didn't see anything," he assured, leaning his head back on Steve's shoulder, exposing his neck at the same time, trying to be as open as he could possibly make himself. He turned his face just slightly towards Steve when he said a moment later, his voice suddenly low and gravelly, "Didn't even open it... 'swear."   
  
In the faint light from the street coming through from behind the window curtains, Steve just barely caught Bucky marking an 'X' over his heart. But God, having him this close, this comfortable, and the way his nose just barely brushed Steve's ear when he swore to him just now, Steve couldn't hardly think about anything else. He wanted to wrap this moment up and stay in it, ignoring how they'd gotten here, ignoring why they'd have to leave, ignoring the world outside and time itself and just, stay here for a while. He knew he'd never be ready to leave so long as time was pushing him closer to it's end anyway, so what was the point of readiness, after all?    
  
Steve hummed something that could have been acknowledgement, could have been dismissal, or perhaps could have been a tired noise at the end of a long day, but Bucky was already asleep, and didn't seem to hear him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title and description lyrics are from Cole Porter's song "(You'd Be) So Easy To Love" 
> 
> which i thought was fitting given this story is going to be mostly little steve pining so if you're into angsty brooklyn boys, stay tuned, it'll get better.


End file.
